


The Burning Woods

by erestor



Series: The Burning Woods [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, F/M, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-14 13:05:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4565691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erestor/pseuds/erestor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erestor, convinced that his services are not longer required in Imladris, wants to sail west with Glorfindel. But then their youngest son Lórindol, believing Mirkwood to be threatened by a hidden evil in the north, goes on a quest with two female Dwarves which not only endangers the lives of everybody in the Woodland Realm, but also causes heartache and uncomfortable revelations for Tauriel, Legolas and his own family. </p><p>While Thranduil faces the threat of a civil war, Námo has to learn that even a Vala is not immune to filial rebellion. The future looks bleak for Mirkwood, but luckily, not all those who wander are lost, no matter how reckless their actions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wayward Sons

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: Eveiya
> 
> “Sia”: Language of the Plains Elves, meaning “parent”. Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Tolkien never mentioned what happened to Dís, sister of Thorin Oakenshield and mother of Kíli and Fíli. So my guess is as good as anybody's!
> 
> This is the third and last part of "The Burning Woods" series, and my final tale about Erestor and Glorfindel. Have fun with it!

Winter came early and without warning. Imladris had fallen asleep to the sound of raindrops on the windowpanes, and awoken to the sight of a thick layer of snow and icicles outside the windows. This thwarted Lórindol's plan to visit Dûlla and attend the wedding of her youngest daughter. Vilya, now sitting on the middle finger of Elrohir's right hand, ensured that winter was a mild and pleasant matter in Imladris, but beyond the ring's influence, snow, cold and ice meant great hardship for the people of Middle-earth.

Luckily, Legolas and Estorel had reached Mirkwood before the onset of winter, and neither Glorfindel nor Erestor expected their eldest son to return before the first thawing. Letters arrived; one from Thranduil thanking for the hospitality shown towards his son and expressing his surprise and delight about Estorel visiting Mirkwood, the other from Estorel, informing parents and brother that all was well and that he was enjoying his stay. Unfortunately, so he wrote, he had not yet encountered any of the infamous Mirkwood spiders.

So life could have continued as usual, despite Elrond's departure to the Undying Lands, but Erestor found his patience increasingly tested in his daily dealings with Elrohir, the new Lord of Imladris. Always the diplomat, Erestor tried to couch his discomfort in many beautiful words, but at the end of the day it came down to Elrohir not thinking like Elrond, Elrohir not acting like Elrond, in short, Elrohir not _being_ Elrond, and Erestor repeatedly found himself at odds with his former pupil's decisions.

"He does not heed my advice, so what does he need me as an advisor for?" Erestor asked Glorfindel after a particularly heated argument with the new Lord of the Last Homely House, pacing up and down his study. "He does not listen to my words; by the Valar, Fin, at times it is as if some invisible advisor was whispering in his ear!"

"Do not take it to heart, beloved," Glorfindel tried to calm him. "It will take time for the two of you to find common ground. You were his tutor when he was an Elfling; you guided him, and he knows that your advice is sound. Let him find his footing; I am certain he will listen to you, eventually. Maybe he is just confused."

"Or maybe he has simply turned into an unbearable twit," Lórindol said, before taking a bite from an apple. "Power does go to people's heads at times. Maybe Elrond should have taken that ring with him. Does Elrohir refer to it as his precious, by any chance, sia?"

"Thank you for that very helpful contribution, Lórindol," Erestor said sourly. "Maybe it is time for a change. Maybe it is time to sail west. I think that I have completed my work here, Fin, and I do not wish to linger on until I am asked to leave."

Erestor had mentioned leaving for the Undying Lands far too often for Lórindol's comfort in the past months. At first he had brushed it off as a sullen reaction of his parent to his disagreements with Elrohir, but now he was beginning to fear that Erestor was serious about leaving. Lórindol didn't like this idea at all. But Lórindol being Lórindol, he couldn't simply say so.

"What do you want in the Undying Lands, sia?" he asked, still chewing. "For all we know, it could be the most boring place imaginable. And if you are unlucky, ada's first wife will be waiting there."

"She will _not_ be waiting there," Glorfindel hissed. "She ran off with a wandering minstrel."

Lórindol shrugged.

"That was two thousand years ago, maybe she had second thoughts by now? Anyway, you cannot leave me here all on my own. I am still young. I need parental guidance and advice."

Erestor glared at his youngest son.

"The last time you took parental guidance from me or your father was when we showed you how to use knife and fork, which was shortly before your second begetting day. And ever since then, you have done whatever you liked, without much care or consideration for our wishes. I doubt you would even notice if we were gone."

Lórindol arched an eyebrow.

"I certainly would, after a week or two."

"Lórindol, enough now," Glorfindel said sternly.

Erestor halted his pacing.

"I will not tolerate your disrespect any longer. Everybody else in Imladris, be they Elf or Man or Orc, has a purpose and duty and fulfils it to their best ability. Everybody but you." He shook his head in exasperation. "Just what is wrong with you, Lórindol?"

Lórindol stood up, seemingly unperturbed.

"You are right to be concerned, sia. Unfortunately, I lack Uncle Nonfindel's artistic talent, so I can only hope to marry well to secure my future, seeing how I have nothing of value to contribute to this illustrious community. Now please excuse me, I will do something useful for a change and go hunting."

He kissed both Glorfindel and Erestor lightly on the cheek and left, whistling some bawdy Dwarfish song.

"That did not go too well," Glorfindel said, and sighed.

"No." Erestor ran his hands through his hair. "I fear I vented my spleen on him. But he really drives me to distraction at times!"

Glorfindel held up his hands.

"Do not blame it on my side of the family, beloved!"

Erestor had to smile. He put his arms around Glorfindel's waist and kissed him.

"Only two sons, and we are completely overwhelmed."

"Fëanor had seven."

Erestor groaned.

"Valar. That explains some things! I will talk to Lórindol as soon as he returns from his hunting expedition and apologise."

Glorfindel nodded. Then, acting on an impulse, he went to the door of Erestor's study and opened it.

"Lórindol!" he shouted. "Take Asfaloth with you!"

Erestor looked at him curiously.

"Asfaloth? To go hunting?"

Glorfindel shrugged.

"I just feel better when Lórindol is accompanied by somebody with common sense."

* * *

Hunting in Imladris was a recreational activity on horseback in lovely woodlands, more often than not ending with the prey skipping merrily off into the sunset because nobody would eat it, so there was no reason for making a kill.

In Mirkwood, hunting was a basic necessity; with provisions low during the harsh winter, the hunters had to brave the dark, dense forest and its hostile inhabitants to ensure Thranduil's people would not starve during the long, cold months. There was no time for cheerful banter, for sharing tall tales around the camp fire. Hunting was a serious business, and Estorel found that this suited him just fine. He was hiding with Elvoron and Ellón in a large tree, the three of them motionless as if they were branches themselves, their bodies already covered with a thin layer of snow. He could smell the moss and the lichen, the rotting foliage underneath the snow. But he could not detect the scent of the twins; the leather of their boots and jerkins, yes, but they had no personal scent, they were as neutral as water and ice - a perfect attribute for hunters.

While they waited for their prey, Estorel thought about Legolas. He hated the secrecy, the sneaking out of Legolas' chamber in the dark hours of the night; he hated that nobody was to know about their love yet. There was always a reason why Legolas couldn't tell his father, his friends, the court; tomorrow, tomorrow, always tomorrow. Deep down, it began to dawn on Estorel that his tomorrow might never come, but he was not prepared to accept this truth, not yet.

But this place, as dark and hostile as it was, seemed to be made for him, and the twins were excellent company. Estorel had not been quite an adult when they had left Imladris for Mirkwood, and though they were younger, they had always treated him with the slightly patronising friendliness of seasoned warriors towards an Elfling. But now things were different, and they were equals. Estorel would never have broached the subject with them, but he was certain that they, too, had some Plains Elf heritage. Where and under what circumstances Elrohir had found one of the Old Tribe only the Valar knew, but having the two of them beside him, lurking in the tree, listening, trying to scent their prey in the same manner as he did gave Estorel a very comforting feeling of belonging, of safety, of family. Today they were hunting for boar, and as they were among themselves, with no Mirkwood Elves and their customs to consider, they had decided to hunt in the manner that suited them best, so they didn't carry bows and arrows, only knives.

Ellón whistled; imitating one of the local birds. Being blind, his senses were sharper than the others', and he had heard the four boars approaching before his brother and Estorel. The other two heard and nodded; as soon as the animals appeared underneath their tree, the three Elves dropped from their branches upon their prey, not unlike Mirkwood spiders.

Their hunting strategy wasn't very elegant, but it was effective: they locked their teeth in the necks of their prey, wrestled the animals to the ground and cut their throats. It was all over very quickly, with the fourth boar fleeing in panic into the depths of Mirkwood forest. Estorel knelt next to his prey and gasped for breath, spitting out bristles and gristle.

"That was not too bad; it looks like you have not spent all your time reading books," Elvoron laughed, and tied a rope around his boar.

"Books? Me?" Estorel shook his head. "Not that I mind reading, but Lórindol is the one with the many books." He grasped a fistful of snow and began to clean the boar's blood off his hands and face.

"We left when you were still Elflings," Ellón said. "So we only know about your lives during the last forty years through letters from home..."

"...and gossip. Do not forget the gossip," Elvoron interrupted him. "Pray tell, did they really kick your brother out of the guards?"

Estorel sighed. He usually did not discuss that matter, but the twins would understand.

"Lórindol has become very fair. In a very... Vanyarin-kind of way. I imagine ada looked like him when he was young. The guards rode out with Lórindol on his first patrol. They looked at his golden hair and those gentle, innocent blue eyes, and they imagined him holding a harp or reciting a poem. Then they got into an Orc ambush, and everybody tried to protect him, that poor, fragile flower. And what does he do? Jumps off his horse, grabs an Orc and bites his neck through, right to the bone, and laughs doing it."

Ellón smiled.

"How inconsiderate of him, to act by his nature. But they accepted you in the guards?"

"From the way I look they expect me to be wild. Also, I am a good archer, and I have not snapped anybody's neck yet." Estorel wiped his wet hands on his leggings and grinned. "At least not when anybody was watching."

"I have to warn you, Estorel, be careful," Ellón said. "The Elves of the Woodland Realm do not take kindly to those from beyond the forest, and especially not if they are as odd looking as me and my brother! However, by now they have gotten used to us, and we have not been pelted with rotten apples for quite some time."

"Ellón has acquired a special reputation as a master swordfighter. This annoys Thranduil's chief advisor Lionel no end; he thinks Ellón is far too smug for one so young," Elvoron explained.

Ellón muttered something rude about Lionel and where he could stick his opinions. They finished cleaning themselves and tied up their prey, slung the ropes around their shoulders and dragged the boar through the snow towards the Great Cave. Elvoron admired how seemingly without effort Estorel mastered this task; was this confident hunter really the same Elf as the gangly Elfling he remembered trying to catch crayfish?

"Do not even think about it," Elvoron heard his brother's voice whispering in his ear. "It would be foolishness and only end in tears."

"Mind your own hunt," Elvoron whispered back, and returned his attention to Estorel, who suddenly halted in his steps and looked over his shoulder.

"Did you hear that?" he asked. "I thought I heard voices."

"It is only the trees, Estorel," Ellón said. "Do not pay any attention to them."

* * *

"It has been over a week now since he left," Erestor said, tapping his fingers impatiently on his desk. "We must go looking for him, Fin."

Mauburz was slouched on the sofa. She sighed, but did not comment.

Glorfindel shook his head.

"He is not an Elfling any more, beloved. He will not like it if his parents go and check on him just because he spends a week hunting in the woods."

Another sigh from Mauburz, this time with additional rolling of eyes.

"But it is _Lórindol_ , Fin! He is a trouble magnet! And now he does not have his brother any more to take care of him, and- will _you_ stop sighing, for crying out loud? If there is anything you wish to say, just say it, Mauburz!"

She sat up, glaring at the two Elves in disapproval.

"Good. Will say first that is really amazing how stupid two wise Elves can be. Second, no idea why you think Estorel taking care of Lórindol, usually it is other way round. And third, _what_ you think Lórindol is hunting?"

Glorfindel and Erestor looked at each other, then at Mauburz.

"What do you mean by that?" Glorfindel asked.

"Glorfindel, think," Mauburz said, rather exasperated. "Estorel is in Mirkwood. Erestor not eating meat. No guests from Mirkwood here, or Dwarves, or Men at the moment. And Lórindol not likes killing animals if he does not have to. In short, nobody here eats animals. So, _what is he hunting_? If you ask Mauburz, Lórindol is not hunting for food. And is not hunting in Imladris."

Erestor starred at the Orc, then he narrowed his eyes.

"I am not in the mood for riddles, and I have had enough of this nonsense," he hissed. "I will take his hideout apart, Glorfindel. Maybe he has left some clue there as to where he is and what he is up to."

"He absolutely does not want anybody to enter the Rabbit Hole," Glorfindel said, "and I really do not think we should-"

"Then do not think!" Erestor cut him off. "Either come with me or sit here and twiddle thumbs. Which will it be?"

Glorfindel didn't feel good about invading his son's home, but he also knew that nobody would stop Erestor now, so he followed Erestor to the Rabbit Hole. How bad could it be, after all? At worst, Lórindol had eloped with a pretty Dwarf lass from the Glittering Caves.

* * *

The door to the Rabbit Hole wasn't locked, and so entering their son's hideout was easy for Erestor and Glorfindel. What they found there, though, made it painfully clear to them that they didn't know their child at all.

"Just what is he doing in here?" Glorfindel asked, looking into a basket of burnt wood. "Why is he collecting all this stuff?"

"I have no idea," Erestor said, taking in stones and gems, maps and papers, trying to make sense of this odd collection. "But he must have a reason. He always has one, it is just that nobody but him understands. Glorfindel, look, there is a map of Mirkwood!"

Glorfindel came to stand next to Erestor in front of the sofa, and they both scrutinised the map, the marks and the notes.

Glorfindel shook his head.

"What does all this mean?"

Erestor shrugged, then turned his attention to Lórindol's bureau. There was an empty space, surrounded by papers and notes.

"He must have written something here. Just look at these notes, Fin. _Witness reports_. Is it possible that he has occupied himself all these years with the great fire? That would explain the notes, the map and the burnt wood. But why? He has never been to Mirkwood; why is this of such importance to him?"

Glorfindel spotted a paper on the floor and picked it up. He read it, frowned, then handed it to Erestor.

"I have no idea, but I think I know where we can find our child, beloved. Read this."

Erestor read the letter. It bore the seal of Mirkwood, and it was written in a neat, clear hand.

_Master Lórindol_

_I was surprised to receive your letter. I wish to state that I find your questions impertinent and intrusive, but as you so bluntly reminded me, I do indeed owe you my life, so I feel obliged to answer you as follows:_

_1\. The political situation in Mirkwood is such that I expect we will have a situation very soon. However, I would be really grateful if you would not spread any rumours about an impending civil war._

_2\. Yellow._

_3\. If I was aware of any relationship your brother might have, then I would assume that said relationship would cause great unrest if not kept secret. However, I wish to emphasise that this is not admitting that I am aware of any such relationship, and if I was, I would not consider it any of your business._

_4\. No, my face did not melt, thank you for asking. The wounds were caused by exploding spruce gum, and according to the healers, the scars should disappear in two or three decades._

_I hope my answers were of assistance to you. As for your wish to visit Mirkwood, I can only advise strongly against it. Not only are we currently experiencing one of the harshest winters in centuries, but your arrival would very likely be the last straw to break Lord Erduil's back. While I fear that a war cannot be avoided, I would prefer if it was not caused by you._

_Respectfully_

_Tauriel_

_PS: I do not know what makes you think that I am the most sensible Elf in Mirkwood. If I was, I would not have replied to your letter._

Erestor looked at Glorfindel in shock, trying to process the content of the letter.

"A civil war? Erduil? By the Valar, what is Lórindol doing, Fin?"

"Civil war, yes, terrible," Glorfindel grumbled, "but what is this about Estorel and a relationship? Good grief, Erestor, what have these two been doing behind our backs?"

Erestor's eyes became dark, and he crumpled the letter in his fist.

"I have no idea, but we will find out. We will go to Mirkwood, Fin, and get them back. I will not have my children risking their necks in a war!"

"Or having relationships we do not know about," Glorfindel added. Then he rubbed his chin. "It cannot be Legolas, can it? That would be - no. Not Legolas. Estorel does not fancy males."

The two looked at each other, then their eyes widened, and they both voiced their thoughts at the same time.

" _Tauriel?_ "


	2. Eryn Varicoloured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dûlla and Dís welcome an unexpected visitor, and Thranduil dabbles in abstract painting, much to the delight of his canvas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: Eveiya
> 
> "Sia": Language of the Plains Elves, meaning "parent". Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Tolkien never mentioned what happened to Dís, sister of Thorin Oakenshield and mother of Kíli and Fíli. So my guess is as good as anybody's!

Thranduil awoke in the darkest hour of the night, and when his hand found the space next to him empty, his sleeping chamber felt even colder than it already was. Nonfindel must have left some time ago, and now Thranduil had to choose between trying to get back to sleep and worrying whether his beloved had left him again.

"One day I will stab him with a paint brush or drown him in a pot of turpentine." He swung his legs over the edge of his bed and shivered. The sand underneath his feet was clammy and the air was very cold, and he quickly slipped into a shirt before heading out the door. If Nonfindel wasn't on his way to Hobbiton or Imladris, then he could only be in one place.

The Great Cave was a labyrinth consisting of hundreds of corridors and smaller caves, and the oldest parts of Thranduil's palace were hidden away deep inside the mountain. Here, the chambers had been hewn out of the stone with the help of Dwarves, so they lacked the playfulness of the Great Hall where Thranduil held court. But Nonfindel found this archaic simplicity more inspiring, and so Thranduil found him in his working space, standing in front of a canvas and hacking at it angrily with a paintbrush as if he wanted to rip a hole into it.

"Are you trying to recreate Mordor in here?" Thranduil asked upon entering, as he was hit by a wave of hot air. "Why do you not just put a tunic on if you are that cold? The centuries in Lothlórien have made you soft."

"If you roamed your realm barefoot, you would also ensure constantly balmy temperatures. That aside, clothing is restricting," Nonfindel replied, standing bare-chested amidst several caldrons of fire which, in addition to the roaring fire in the fireplace, had turned the place into a sauna matching the one owned by the King of Rohan. "Whose stupid idea was it to settle in this place, anyway? Imladris, Lothlórien, the Shire - such lovely places, but no, it had to be Mirkwood. _Mirkwood_!"

Thranduil chuckled, took his shirt off and crossed the room. He passed a large canvas leaning against a wall and halted, looking at the picture intently.

"It is finished! Why did you not tell me?"

"Because I do not know if it is really finished yet," Nonfindel replied, reaching for a rag and wiping a smudge of yellow paint from the easel. "I am not happy with the expression on Ethuil's face. It is not quite right. Not how I remember it."

Thranduil looked at the painting. It was a portrait of the royal family before - _before_. Everything in their lives was now separated into _before_ and _after_ the fire. That was the only narrative, the only timeline. An informal scene, despite Thranduil sitting on his throne, with Ethuil sitting at his feet, playing with his dog. There were Legolas and Amariel, gazing at each other with that dreamy expression reserved for lovers, and Nonfindel standing at the easel, painting this peaceful family scene, looking at the king with a smile.

"I think it is perfect," Thranduil said. "You have even caught the golden speckles in Amariel's eyes. I do not know of anybody else who has such an eye for detail."

Nonfindel said nothing to that, and Thranduil came to stand next to him, looking over his shoulder to see what he was working on.

"By the Forest Spirits, what is that?" he finally asked, after a moment of speechless confusion. "Did you try to swat a fly with your paintbrush?"

"I try to paint the fire," Nonfindel said, without looking at his lover. "But it is not possible. It cannot be painted. It does not _want_ to be painted."

He accentuated each of his words with an angry stab at the canvas. Thranduil sighed, then put his arms around Nonfindel's middle and rested his chin on his shoulder. The skin was hot to his touch; not only from the fire, but also from his anger, frustration and grief.

"Mirkwood once was green, beloved. Lush green grass, flowers, deer grazing without a care. We have never given up hope that Mirkwood will become Eryn Lasgalen once more one day. That fire-", he tightened his hold on Nonfindel, "that fire must not destroy us, my love."

Nonfindel put his paintbrush aside.

"It has drained me of all joy, Thranduil. Indeed, I find that you are the only source of happiness I have left. I fear I will fade if I stay here much longer, beloved."

Thranduil kissed his shoulder, and dipped a finger into the paint.

"I know. I promised you that we would leave for Valinor, and we _will_ leave. See, this is the sign for love," he said, and drew a rune on his lover's chest, just above the heart. Then, again, he dipped his finger into the paint. "And this is the sign for marriage." Another sign, next to the rune, more elaborate. Nonfindel recognised it; he had seen these tattoos many times on Thranduil's body. "This one is for the firstborn child. This one for the first kill in a hunt. This for a victory in battle."

Nonfindel looked down at his chest.

"What do you want to tell me, Thranduil?"

"Every significant event in our lives is marked on our skin, so that we may remember and can tell our children. But we do not have a sign for the fire, my love. We will not allow it to mark us; the scars and the grief are enough. It will pass; the trees will grow again; you can already see the saplings grow from the ashes."

Thranduil put both hands into the paint and dragged them across Nonfindel's body.

"Having said that, this feels really nice. Have you ever tried to paint without a paintbrush?"

Thranduil slipped his hands into his lovers trousers, and Nonfindel sighed.

"I fear this will be one of those nights where difficult to remove substances end up in hard to reach places."

Thranduil smiled and arched an eyebrow.

"Could be, could be. Eryn Varicoloured, beloved."

* * *

"As much as I admire your skill, I think it's wasted. If it was up to me, he'd get a ring made from a bottle of Shire brandy with a piece of coal on top of it."

"Shhh, I need to concentrate."

Dûlla muttered something intelligible, but left her friend to her work. A snow storm was raging outside, and she pulled her woollen scarf closer around her shoulders. She filled a tankard with mulled wine from a cauldron over the fire, and sat down in her favourite rocking chair. It had been made by her late husband, Rollo, as a gift on their wedding day. That thought revived her anger, and she couldn't keep quiet.

"He's got the brains of a donkey; I tell you, he couldn't even draw a circle if you gave him a glass and a pencil, and as for welding - bah!"

Dís had set the last stone; the ring for the groom was finished and she admired her work.

"Ah, that turned out nicely. I'm old, but I still know my trade." She carefully put the ring into a wooden box, then turned to her friend. "Dûlla, she chose him, she will marry him, and there is not a bloody thing you can do about it. Such is the way with children. I remember that your father wasn't overly enthusiastic when you announced that you'd marry Rollo, either. Didn't he call him an oversized Hobbit?"

Dûlla had to grin.

"Yes, and that was one of his nicer comments!" She sighed. "Eh, I know. You're right, but to be honest, I secretly hoped the lass might fall for Lórindol."

Dís almost dropped the box.

"What? Your pet Elf? Are you mad?"

"He is not my 'pet Elf'," Dûlla said defiantly, "and I am not mad at all. He is the first onto the battlefield and the last to leave. He is headstrong and would die for his clan. He's more of a Dwarf than an Elf, anyway."

"Mahal, give me endurance," Dís groaned. "You know that this very strange friendship doesn't reflect favourably on the house of Dûl, don't you?"

"This member of the House of Dûl couldn't care less. It's a shame winter has come so early; I will not see the lad now for many months. I'd have loved you to meet him. He never fails to cheer me up."

"I think I'll survive. At least you still have someone to cheer you up," Dís said, more to herself than to her host.

Dûlla filled another tankard with mulled wine and put it in front of her guest.

"Why don't you stay here? You're not getting any younger; why not give up your days of wandering and settle down? Plenty of space here, now that my youngest has left. And you could join our family business. Dûl's swords and your jewellery - I'm certain my brother would be delighted."

Dís looked at her in surprise, but before she could answer, the door was pushed open, and in a flurry of snow and cold, in stumbled a tall figure, clad in a fur-trimmed greatcloak. Both Dwarf women reached for their weapons; Dûlla for a sword and her friend for a dagger, ready to defend the house against the brazen intruder.

"Now _that_ is what I call winter," a cheerful voice said, and the cloak was thrown over a chair. "Mmm, mulled wine, that is just what I need now, and how lovely to see you so well, Mother Dûlla! And oh, you have a visitor? I have to say, that is the most splendid beard I have seen for a very long time!"

The two women looked open-mouthed at each other, then at their visitor.

" _Lórindol_?" Dûlla finally croaked.

"I could have guessed," Dís said drily, and pointed at the Elf with her dagger. "What have you done, lad, wrestled a rabbit?"

Only now did Dûlla notice that the front of Lórindol's tunic was torn and soaked in blood. She dropped her sword and hurried to his side.

"That?" Lórindol looked down at his bleeding wound and shrugged. "Eh, no, I think it was a bear. I cannot tell for certain, it was too dark."

A frown, a nod, then the dagger went back into its sheath.

* * *

Lórindol sat on the floor and ate a bowl of soup. Dûlla had cleaned and bandaged his wound under the watchful eyes of Dís, who clearly felt that she made too much fuss over the Elf. Dûlla went to dispose of the torn clothing, leaving her two guests alone. Dís used the opportunity to study Lórindol carefully.

"What do these marks mean?" she asked, pointing at the stylised raven and flower above his heart. "Only Woodland Elves mark their skin, and you are not of Thranduil's folk."

Lórindol looked up from his bowl and blinked.

"No, and he is very grateful for that! I am the son of Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, and of Erestor of the House of the Circling Raven. Yes, those are male names. No, it is not impossible, because my sia's grandfather was a Mordorian Plains Elf. For further information, please consult Master Melpomaen's most excellent book on the anatomy and social habits of our race."

Dís narrowed her eyes.

"Watch your tongue, lad. You're still young enough for me to give you a clip around the ear."

"My apologies. I try to be less impertinent, but it is difficult. I was serious about your beard, though. It really is very splendid."

Seeing no mockery in his eyes, she reluctantly accepted the compliment with a nod.

"Thank you. I saw that you had your hair braided in the way of the House of Dûl. Don't you think this is a little odd for an Elf?"

Lórindol took a strand of his hair and looked at it, crossing his eyes.

"Not really. Dûlla says I am family. And I have this theory about the origins of the Plains Elves. Do you want to hear it?"

"I can't wait..."

Lórindol was deaf to the irony and set his bowl aside

"Well, I think they were an abandoned experiment by Aulë, before he created the Dwarves."

Dís leaned forward, thinking she had misheard.

" _What_?"

"Think about it," Lórindol continued, waving his spoon through the air. "Most people cannot tell male and female Dwarves apart. The same is true for Plains Elves. Well, technically, we are both, but anyway. You feel very strongly about protecting your clan; so do we. And an angry Dwarf and an angry Plains Elf have a lot in common: we rip heads off rather than sniff indignantly. And then there is the hair, of course."

Dís arched an eyebrow and looked at Lórindol's tangled blond locks.

"The _hair_?"

He nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes. You could not braid Elf hair in such a manner, could you?"

"I have never tried it," she said dryly.

"Oh, but you have to!"

Before she could protest, Lórindol put the spoon aside, took a comb from a table and the various bells and trinkets Dûlla had removed from his hair, sat down in front of Dís and put it all in her hands.

"I can't do this," she said quietly.

"Why, do you not know how to do the braids of the House of Dûl?" Lórindol asked, looking at her over his shoulder. She wanted to tell him that it was a long time since she had last braided somebody's hair, and that they had never returned from the war, despite promising her otherwise. It was a painful memory, not unlike the one Dûlla had experienced when looking at the rocking chair, but there was something in Lórindol's eyes, something which touched her, and so she sighed.

"You're worse than the Gondorian plague, but I'm certain you've been told so before. Fine then, but I tell you, don't you dare to whinge about me pulling your hair, or I'll cut it off and you can go home looking like a Hobbit!"

He gave her his brightest smile.

"No whinging, promise!"

The door opened, and Dûlla came in.

"Asfaloth is well cared for. Here, I have found some of the clothing you left on your last-" She broke off. Seeing Lórindol sitting in front of her friend, who held a comb and tried to untangle his hair, she just gawped at the pair of them open-mouthed.

"Stop staring and sit down," Dís snapped. "I don't know about the rest, but oddly enough, he really does have Dwarf hair."

"Ah," Dûlla said, in lack of words. She sat down on a chair, watching the nimble fingers braiding hair, attaching the trinkets and small bells, and she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Finally, she regained her composure.

"I'm very happy to have you here, my lad, but still, I wonder why you undertook such a dangerous journey in the middle of a snow storm," she said. "I'm surprised your parents allowed you to leave Imladris."

"Oh, they do not know I am here," Lórindol said cheerfully. "You know what they are like; they would never have let me go. But it was important that I come and see you."

"They don't know? But Lórindol, you can't do that! They will be worried sick!"

Lórindol waved her off.

"Eh, they know I can look after myself. Dûlla, I need your help and your expertise. And your explosives. Will you come with me to Mirkwood? Something evil is happening there, my brother is in danger, and as usual, nobody but me seems to see it."

Dûlla pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Lórindol, my daughter will marry next week. There will be four hundred guests and I still have a thousand of things to do! I can't come with you to Mirkwood, and even if I _did_ accompany you, what could I do there? If you want me to clip Thranduil around the ear, I'll be happy to do so, but I don't think that will help your brother."

Lórindol made a frustrated noise.

"She will be married for a couple of hundred years, so what does it matter if she marries sooner or later? And from all you wrote me, he is a fool, anyway."

"I'm beginning to see reason in his Origins-of-the-Plains-Elves theory," Dís snickered.

Lórindol threw his arms in the air.

"This is not only about Estorel, do you not understand? If I am right, and I am certain that I am because I am hardly ever wrong, not only he is in danger, but all of Mirkwood, and then everybody who is close to it. That means also Dwarves and Men. Please, Dûlla, I need your help!"

Dûlla looked at Lórindol. She knew him well, like he was her own child; an odd child, no doubt, and one that had tried her patience more than once, but he had always been honest.

"Is there anything beyond your belief to support your claim, young one? Because I will not abandon a wedding party of four hundred just because you have an inkling."

"I wrote to Tauriel," Lórindol said. "She thinks there will be a civil war. But that is not the point. I think she feels that there is something wrong, she just does not know what it is."

Dís looked up.

"Tauriel? Is that-"

"I don't think the inklings of random Elves in Mirkwood are substantial support of your claims, either," Dûlla quickly said, interrupting her friend.

"But it is! Tauriel is the only one with a brain there. Well, uncle Nonfindel aside, but he is in love with Thranduil, so I do not think he will be of any use." He smiled. "She thinks I am impertinent."

"Truer words were never spoken," Dûlla said. She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. She thought of the wedding, and how empty her house would be once her daughter left. The storm was howling outside; riding to Mirkwood would be madness. And a civil war?

"Fine, I'll come with you," she finally said. "My family already thinks I'm mad, so they will not be that surprised. And they will blame it on you, anyway."

Lórindol jumped up and hugged Dûlla.

"Thank you, I knew I could count on you! We will need explosives; I feel there will be something to blow up. And weapons; I only have ada's sword."

Dís had followed this conversation with a deep frown on her face.

"I agree with the young one that something is not quite right in Mirkwood," she said. "After the War of the Ring, relations improved with the Woodland Realm, there was trade, Elves and Dwarves formed friendships. But since the fire, this has changed; the Elves of Thranduil's realm have become hostile. So who knows, maybe there really is some hidden evil."

She stood up and straightened her skirt, then arranged the clasps in her beard.

"I will join you," she said. "Such a mission needs all the support it can get. That aside," she added, reaching out and touching one of Lórindol's braids, "it is time for me to visit Mirkwood. For I, too, have unfinished business there."

Lórindol smiled at her.

"Why, yes, that is a fantastic idea!"

Dûlla, however, looked horrified, and shook her head, waving her hands frantically.

"No, no, no, it is an absolutely horrible idea!"

Lórindol reached for his half-empty bowl of soup and the spoon, and sat down on the floor again.

"As we are now a company, may I ask your name, my dear lady?"

"I am Dís," she said. "Sister of Frerin and Thorin, mother of Fíli and Kíli."

Lórindol froze. He opened his mouth to say something, then decided against it. What had Tauriel written? _While I fear that a war cannot be avoided, I would prefer if it was not caused by you._ Oh dear.


	3. The Glorified Orc and his Dwarf Rabble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrohir finds it increasingly difficult to keep both Námo and his sanity; Erestor and Glorfindel suspect he has lost the latter long ago. 
> 
> Legolas' son explores so-far unknown parts of the Halls of Waiting and makes a new friend. 
> 
> Meanwhile, the merry company of Elf and Dwarves finally arrives in Mirkwood, and as expected, Lórindol's first encounter with the guardians of Mirkwood's borders surpasses Dís' worst expectations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: Eveiya
> 
> “Sia”: Language of the Plains Elves, meaning “parent”. Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.

Elrohir had listened intently to Erestor's words; not an easy feat, considering that Námo had been standing behind the advisor, commenting every sentence.

"Erestor, do you think Lórindol's fears are founded and that there is truth in Tauriel's letter about the threat of a civil war in Mirkwood? I am asking you as my chief advisor, and not as a parent, whose judgement understandably could be clouded by his worry about his children."

Glorfindel cast Erestor a worried sidewise glance, and really, the advisor paled and his eyes darkened.

"Do you really think me so feeble minded that I could not make a judgement based on the facts, _my lord_?" Erestor said icily.

"He really _is_ easily offended," Námo said, arching an eyebrow.

"That is not true," Elrohir protested, addressing both Erestor and Námo; of course the first could neither see nor hear the latter.

"Lórindol has a very keen mind, and Thranduil would not have a fool be captain of his guards for so many years, Elrohir. So yes, I _do_ believe their fears are well founded. And while Imladris cannot and should not meddle in the affairs of Mirkwood, we must bring our children home before they get themselves involved in a war that is not theirs."

Elrohir began to pace up and down, a deep frown on his face.

"I have asked Ellón and Elvoron to return so many times, and they always refused."

"And rightly so!" Námo circled Elrohir, his hands folded behind his back. "You must not listen to this worrywart, beloved. Our sons are happy in Mirkwood, they thrive among the spiders and your Woodland kin, why take that away from them?"

"Stop being so cheerful!" The words escaped Elrohir, earning him confused looks from Erestor and Glorfindel.

"I beg your pardon?" Erestor asked. "Cheerful?"

Elrohir halted his pacing and rubbed his temples.

"I did not mean you, Erestor."

"I do not think that I look particularly cheerful," Glorfindel said.

Elrohir sighed.

"No, no, it is just-"

"I have everything under control, beloved," Námo said, giving Elrohir a reassuring smile. "Let me handle this, my little flame, and all will be well." He waved his long-fingered hand nonchalantly through the air. "And anyway, what is a small civil war compared to a big fire? You know that our sons cannot be hurt, so stop worrying."

"If I let you handle this, it will only end in chaos," Elrohir muttered.

"If that is your opinion, I will withdraw from my position as your advisor," Erestor said with barely contained anger.

"And the same goes for me," Glorfindel said angrily. "Nobody insults Erestor while I am still alive!"

"No!" Elrohir cried. "I was not talking to you!"

"I told you he is too sensitive," Námo stated.

Elrohir spun around.

"Will you be quiet now, you absolute nuisance!" he cried, and Námo folded his arms over his chest, looking insulted.

Erestor and Glorfindel looked at Elrohir, who was swearing at the shelf with Elrond's books on garden architecture, then at each other, and it was obvious what they were thinking: somebody should escort Elrohir to the House of Healing, if necessary by force.

Elrohir sighed, raking his hands through his hair.

"I know what you are thinking, but you are wrong. I do not need a healer. Please, my dearest friends, leave me alone. Of course you are right in everything you said, Erestor. I will accompany you to Mirkwood, and we will bring our sons home. In time, I hope I can explain to you what is going on here, but for now, I can only ask you to trust me, as you would have trusted my father."

Erestor looked very sceptical, but he nodded.

"We will go and prepare for our journey then," he said. "Please join us whenever you are ready."

Elrohir nodded, and as soon as the door had closed behind Erestor and Glorfindel, he turned to Námo again.

"See what you have done? Now they think me mad, talking to invisible people and hearing voices!"

Námo shrugged.

"Well, you are. Talking to people invisible to them, that is."

Elrohir sank down in the closest chair. Námo moved behind him, putting his hands on his shoulders and gently stroking them.

"You must not go to Mirkwood, beloved. All is well. Please trust me. You cannot take our sons away from there; they have not fulfilled their fate yet. And your place is here."

Elrohir looked up. Despite their frequent squabbles, they hardly ever really argued. This was not due to Elrohir being overruled by the Vala, or because he was awed by Námo's power. It was just that they usually agreed on important matters. But today, he could not agree with Námo, and he would not give in. So he shook his head and stood up.

"My place is with our sons. And, quite frankly, so should yours be. I will go to Mirkwood, and that is the end of it."

Námo cocked his head, as if he had misheard.

"But I said you must _not_ go?"

"I am not hard of hearing. However, I will not do what you say, but what I feel is the right thing to do."

Elrohir gave Námo a stern look, and tapped him on the chest with his forefinger.

"And just to save you time: neither sudden snow storms, surprising appearances of Were-worms or a rain of toads will keep me from going to Mirkwood. So do not even try."

"I have never sent you sudden snow storms," Námo muttered before disappearing, and Elrohir was certain that the last word on this matter had not yet been spoken between them.

* * *

"Do not worry," Manwë had said. "The Halls are small and Elves are immortal, so how many will really come and stay there, anyway?"

Unfortunately, Námo had to learn that even the fairest and wisest beings could be incredibly stupid and violent, given the chance. Wars, kinslayings, oaths, ship-burnings and drunken brawls in murky taverns soon filled the Halls of Waiting to their capacity, and Námo had to expand the premises repeatedly. So the original Halls of Waiting were now the Great Hall, the one with the grand fireplace, where Glorfindel used to sit and tell his tale of how he had slain the Balrog.

Though not particularly interested in Balrogs or their slayings, Ethuil would not have minded hearing that tale right now, because he was bored. He already knew every grass blade in the large garden where Amaris, his grandfather's brother, taught a group of Dwarves bawdy tavern songs. Ethuil would have loved to hear them, but Amaris had quickly shooed him away, declaring that this was not suitable entertainment for a young Elf.

Followed by his dog Gem, he had then visited the library, only to be sent away by one of Námo's stern-looking servants after trying to read "Mirkwood Love Secrets". Allegedly, he was too young for such reading. Ethuil was now in a rather foul mood, so he decided to explore those parts of Námo's realm that he'd been explicitly forbidden to visit. This was less exciting than he had hoped, for the forbidden wing of the Halls of Waiting seemed to consist mostly of endless corridors.

Eventually, he came to stand in front of a black door. There was a large sign attached to it: "Absolutely no entrance for anybody, especially not for you," so obviously Ethuil had to open it. Much to his surprise, he found himself standing not in yet another library or hall, but in an overgrown garden. That was just fine by him; at least he was alone here and could vent.

"Too young for this, too young for that, but obviously not too young to be sent here in the first place," Ethuil said to Gem, and threw his arms in the air. "And they expect me to stay here for all eternity? I really do not think so!"

Gem wagged his tail in agreement, and Ethuil began to think. Amaris and Gil-galad had found a way to move between the Halls of Waiting and the world of the living. Both had been dead and returned; according to Nonfindel, they had fled Námo's realm; something which had caused much gossip and scandal, back in the day. Of course he had asked Amaris about it, but the usually so talkative Elf had only fobbed him off with the ludicrous claim that he and the last High King of the Noldor were Námo's holiday replacements!

"Well, if _they_ could leave, so can _I_ ," Ethuil said, looking very determined. "I will take you and nana, and we will leave here. Ada and grand-ada must miss us terribly."

Ethuil walked for a while, then the overgrown garden opened into a meadow. It was covered in small, yellow flowers shaped like stars, and a young lady sat in the grass, reading a book. There was a chain of the yellow flowers in her hair. The dog sped through the grass towards her, and she looked up.

"Now where did you come from?" she asked, and laughed. She put her book aside and petted Gem, who immediately rolled on his side, enjoying the attention. "Good boy!" Then she saw Ethuil. Her smile disappeared and she looked worried.

"Child! What are you doing here? Have you lost your way?"

Ethuil made his way through the knee-high grass and sat down next to her.

"I do not think so. I just have to follow the path back."

"That is not what I meant." She picked a flower and offered it to him. "Not all ways are paved and made of stone and sand."

"I know," he said, rolling the stem of the flower between his fingers. "My name is Ethuil."

Her smile returned. "A child of spring then, I see. All the more reason you should not be here. Spring means new life and hope." She looked at him, then clasped her hands. "Hurry back to the Halls of Waiting, before somebody locks the door and you are trapped here."

"I am not in a hurry." Ethuil looked around. He had first thought it was a small meadow, but now it seemed endless, a sea of yellow flowers.

"Tell me, what is this place? Are these not the Halls of Waiting?"

"They are, of sorts. But here, we do not wait for a return to Arda, Ethuil. We wait for the end of times."

Ethuil wrinkled his nose.

"The end of times? But that is - forever! Why would you do that? Why stay here if you could return?"

"Because we do not wish to return."

"But why?"

She shrugged.

"There are many reasons. Some have no families to return to. Some have committed deeds so cruel that they lost the right to return. And for some, it would be too painful."

Ethuil's curiosity was piqued.

"And what are your reasons?"

"You are too young to hear my tale, Ethuil. And you really should return now."

Ethuil crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her.

"You are the third person to call me too young today, as if I was some silly little Elfling! I am tired of this; if I was old enough to die, I am old enough for everything else, and I will not leave before you tell me why you are here."

"You are very stubborn." She took the flower chain from her head and put it on Ethuil's. "I like stubborn Elves. Very well then, I will tell you my story. Many centuries ago, our people went to war. My husband and I had only just become parents for the first time, and I just could not bear the thought of being separated from him for months or years, even. So I followed him to the battlefield, naively thinking I would be safe if only I stayed in the mountains with our young son."

"But you were not?"

"No." She folded her hands and rested them in her lap. "A band of Orcs attacked us. Believe me, Ethuil, I fought with all my might, but our small group was soon overpowered, and we all died. I saw my dearest child die in front of me. Then I came here, and at first, I waited for my son to join me, but he never came. I suppose he could never forgive me, and who could blame him? So, I am certain you can understand why I have no wish to return. His father must have cursed my name."

Ethuil rubbed his chin.

"But your husband must have been so sad, having lost both of you! Did you not think of that?"

She was about to say something, but a wind got up, and she looked very worried all of a sudden.

"Ethuil, lose no time! Quick, return by the way you came here, and do not look back!"

The urgency in her voice convinced Ethuil that he couldn't stay any longer. He stood up, bowed to her and then ran across the meadow. He was tempted to look back, but an inner voice warned him that he shouldn't. Gem lead the way, heading straight for the path and the overgrown garden. And there was the door! Ethuil reached for the handle and breathed a sigh of relief when it opened. He stepped into the corridor, and when he saw Gem jumping up and down in front of him, he closed the door behind them.

"Now, that was a strange adventure," he said to the dog. He thought about the lady sitting in the meadow while walking back through the long corridors, and while the whole thing was a mystery to him, at least he wasn't bored any more.

* * *

Snow was falling thick and heavy when they reached Mirkwood, and Lórindol secretly envied Dûlla and Dís their mountain goats. Asfaloth could outrun Nazgûl, count to twelve and find the way home from the tavern all by himself, but he was not the right horse for winter travel. The horse radiated disapproval and had been in a foul mood ever since they had left Imladris, and neither carrots nor sugar lumps could placate him.

"Here we are then," Dûlla said, and halted her goat. "This is the border of Mirkwood."

Lórindol blinked.

"I have never seen such a dark forest."

"Well, there is a reason they don't call it Sunnypark," Dís said. "It says turn away, you are not welcome."

Dûlla nodded.

"Indeed. The atmosphere is very hostile."

Dís shrugged.

"That, too. But it also says so there, on the signpost."

"How considerate." Lórindol got off his horse and walked towards the signpost Dís had pointed out. He wiped the snow off its surface so he could read all of the text.

"How curious - listen to this: _'You have reached the border of Mirkwood. Turn away now. Passage only allowed by special permission of ELotNF._ ' - What in the Valar's name is that supposed to mean? Elf Legion of the Neurotic Fighters? Eagle Licences on the Noldorin Flights?"

"I have no idea," Dûlla said, scratching her head under her hood, "but it does not sound very welcoming."

Lórindol shrugged.

"Well, whatever it means, we are here now, so we go in there. Dismount your noble steeds; the path is narrow, we must walk."

He took Asfaloth's rein and made a step forward, but the moment he set foot on Mirkwood territory, two guards dropped from the branches of the trees above, their arrows aimed at Lórindol and Dûlla.

"Who are you and what do you want?" the male guard asked.

"I am Lórindol of Imladris, and I am here to visit my brother Estorel and my uncle Nonf-, eh, Lórindol of Gondolin."

"I am Dûlla of the House of Dûl. I am his guard."

"I am Dís. Who I am and what I do here is none of your business. Now step aside and let us pass; I'm freezing my bum off here."

The male guard wrinkled his nose.

"You may not pass," he said. "It says so on the sign there."

"It says we need the special permission of ELotNF," Lórindol replied. "Tell me what that means, and we will obtain this permission."

"It means _Erduil, Lord of the Northern Forest_ ," the guard explained. "And you may not pass."

"Yes, yes, you already said so. Where may we get this permission?"

"In the Northern Forest. From Lord Erduil. But you may not pass."

Dûlla began to lose her patience.

"How can we get a permission to pass if we cannot pass to get the permission, heh?"

"I do not know," the guard replied. "But you may not pass."

The female guard had followed the exchange with increasing discomfort.

"Feon, maybe we should inform-" she began, but Feon cut her off.

"We have our orders," he said sternly. "They are not allowed to pass, so they _will_ not pass."

Lórindol shook his head.

"We _will_ pass; the only question is whether your state of health will allow you to watch our backs when we walk down that path."

The female guard, lowering her bow a little, moved to Feon's side.

"We should not shed blood over this, brother," she said.

"Agreed." Feon, face red with anger, threw bow and arrow aside. He came to stand so close to Lórindol that their noses almost touched. "I certainly do not need any weapons to throw this glorified Orc and this Dwarf rabble out of Mirkwood. My bare hands will do!"

"Please don't do it, please don't do it, please don't do it..." Dûlla whispered under her breath, but it was too late. Lórindol ungirded his sword and handed it to Dís, then he took off his greatcoat.

"As you wish. This glorified Orc here will wipe the floor of this pitiful tree nursery with your myopic wingless pixie arse!"

"Ouch, that was harsh," Dís said.

"He learned that one from me," Dûlla said, beaming with pride, but before she could say another word about Dwarfish insults, the two young Elves were at each other's throats and rolling around in the snow in a wild brawl. Lórindol was stronger, but Feon more experienced, so the fight was quite even handed.

"One gold coin on your brat," Dís said. "You're in?"

"It makes no sense if we bet on the same Elf," Dûlla grumbled. "Lass, you interested in a bet?"

The other guard looked at the two Dwarves, then she shrugged.

"Do you accept copper?"

The brawl continued for a while, when Dís noticed movement in the trees above her.

"Dûlla, be careful!" she cried, but Dûlla already held an axe in her hands.

"Where did you hide that one?" she asked, but Dûlla only shrugged. Then two Elves dropped from the trees, but they paid no attention to the two Dwarves. They broke up the brawl; one grasped Feon by the shoulders and pulled him away, the other threw Lórindol on his back and straddled him, effectively immobilising the struggling Elf.

"Let me go, I am not finished with him yet," Lórindol cried, and tried to throw his attacker off, but there was no chance; he was held in an iron grip. Seeing that all efforts were in vain, he finally gave up and blew a strand of hair out of his face.

"I would have won," he said sulkily.

"I doubt it," Tauriel said, for it was she who had interfered in the childish fight. She looked at the Elf she held down in the snow. He was sporting an ugly bruise on his left eye. This would, without a doubt, turn into a large shiner come tomorrow. She also couldn't help but notice that he was a remarkably fair creature, despite the decidedly un-elfish braids in his golden hair. That aside, he looked familiar to her.

"I know you," she said, and let go of him, yet made no move to stand up. "Where have we met before? Speak, what is your name?"

He looked insulted.

"Why, has the fire damaged your eyesight, Tauriel? It is I, Lórindol! I cannot possibly have changed that much! Say, are these the scars you hide yourself in Mirkwood for? That is ridiculous, they look like freckles!" He reached out to touch her face, and she was too dumbfounded to move away. "They do not look too bad. I actually quite like them, and-"

"Will you shut up right now!"

"Fine then," Lórindol snapped, while Tauriel gasped for air. _This_ was Lórindol? The obnoxious Elfling who had saved her life by dragging her from the Bruinen? She touched her shoulder, where Lórindol's teeth had left a lasting mark. But before she could say another word, a snowball hit her right in the face.

"You! Get off of him!"

Dûlla glared angrily at her, a second snowball already in her hand. Before she could throw it, though, she was herself hit by a snowball, and a rather hard and icy one at that.

"If you do not stop this nonsense immediately, I will throw you into our king's dungeons myself, Mistress Dwarf," the Elf who had pulled Feon away said. "And I assure you, the guards there are not armed with snowballs!"

"You should be glad I threw a snowball and not my axe," Dûlla shouted. "There's still time to split your head, though!"

"I do not think King Thranduil would take kindly to you splitting that particular head, Mistress Dwarf," Tauriel said. "This is Lionel, his chief advisor. But I am certain he could suggest some alternatives."

"I have a list in my office. It is sorted in alphabetical order," Lionel said, and gave Dûlla his brightest smile. "I am certain you will find many of the names familiar."

Dûlla grumbled something very rude in Dwarvish, but finally put her axe away.

Dís had followed the exchange with increasing confusion.

"Mahal give me endurance," she muttered. "This surpasses my worst nightmares."

Tauriel, noticing that she still sat on Lórindol's chest, quickly stood up and brushed the snow off her clothes.

"Maiel, what is going on here?" she asked the female guard.

"We are not supposed to let anybody pass, by order of our Lord Erduil," she said, avoiding Tauriel's scrutinising gaze. "So we did not let them pass. They wanted to pass anyway, and then things got out of hand somehow."

Tauriel grasped her arm and took her aside.

"Lord Erduil has no authority to give such orders," she said. "Why did you not tell me?"

Maiel looked miserable.

"Tauriel, this is difficult. You are our captain, but we are of the Northern Forest, so we have sworn allegiance to our lord. Believe me, it is nothing personal."

Tauriel didn't reply; this was neither the time nor the place for this discussion. She returned to Lórindol and the two Dwarves, removing the signpost as she passed and producing a half-decent smile.

"Welcome to Mirkwood, and please forgive the misunderstanding. We will accompany you to the Great Cave, where our king will be very happy to meet you."

Lórindol nodded and reached for Asfaloth's rein.

"He will be delighted, no doubt," Dís said, and returned her sword into its scabbard. When she led her goat past Tauriel, their eyes met. _So that's her then_ , she thought to herself. _Mahal, I don't see the attraction, but at least she shut Lórindol up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any similarities between crossing the border of the German Democratic Republic in the 1980ies and the border of Mirkwood in the Fourth Age are purely fictional and are not based on reality at all.


	4. Bears and Propositions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erestor, Glorfindel and Elrohir make a disquieting find on their way to Mirkwood, while Amaris entertains Ethuil, Kíli and Fíli with Thranduil's family history. Meanwhile, Lórindol manages to gravely insult Tauriel, and Dûlla worries that Dís might seek revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: Eveiya
> 
> “Sia”: Language of the Plains Elves, meaning “parent”. Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
>  
> 
> On 21 September 2003, Eveiya offered to beta-read Chapter 2 of "The Knave". I said "wheeeee!" and did a little victory dance on the sofa. Somebody liked my stories enough to take the time and correct my grammar, my typos (I'm ESL), and was honest enough to tell me when I wrote something which made no sense or got too sappy or lost the plot.
> 
> And here we are, twelve years later: I still write, she still makes sure that what I write is readable, and we both have a lot of fun. Yes, twelve years, two fandoms, two books, and we still have fun. It is thanks to her that Erestor doesn't step in "poodles" and Gillette doesn't "brandish" cows, and her remarks and suggestions are great inspirations. More important, though, are twelve years of friendship. Thanks for that, my dear.

There were neither snow storms, surprising appearances of Were-worms nor rains of toads; in fact their journey to Mirkwood was remarkably uneventful, and it was just _that_ which roused Elrohir's suspicion. Not a Warg's bark had been heard, not a whiff of Orcs' stench had been in the air since they had left Imladris. Was that Námo's doing?

"Even Orcs fear this cold," Glorfindel said, pulling the hood of his cloak closer around his face. "The tips of my ears will fall off soon."

"It is indeed a harsh winter," Erestor replied. His breath left a white cloud in the air; it was icy cold, and the wind sewed his nose closed with a tiny, sharp needle. It was not only the physical cold he found taxing, though: the closer they came to Mirkwood, the more anxious he felt.

"I hope Lórindol's journey was as uneventful as ours. Such a foolish thing to do, travelling alone, and in such conditions!"

"Lórindol is fine, Erestor," Glorfindel tried to comfort him. "Pity any Orcs foolish enough to cross his path."

"I have no pity for any creature who wishes to harm my child."

They rode for a while in silence, then Elrohir narrowed his eyes and pointed at a large, snow-covered obstacle that blocked the way ahead of them.

"Wait! Erestor, you have the sharpest eyes; can you see what that is?"

Erestor halted his horse and looked in the direction of Elrohir's outstretched hand.

"I do not know - an animal, maybe? We should have a look at it. Come."

He directed his horse towards the dark shape in the snow, and the others followed. When Elrohir and Glorfindel caught up with Erestor, he was already kneeling in the snow, investigating their find.

"It is a bear," he said. "It looks like there was a fight here, many days ago. The snow has preserved the tracks." He shoved some snow aside. "See? There are still traces of blood."

Elrohir knelt down next to him.

"It would be interesting to know who killed this beast. Maybe we can find out; scavengers have not touched it."

Glorfindel walked around the bear.

"Maybe they do not like their meal frozen. This was probably a fight among animals in the woods, and - oh, wait a moment..."

Erestor and Elrohir saw Glorfindel disappear behind the bear, then the beast was shaken several times. Next they heard Glorfindel swearing, and eventually, he emerged from behind the bear's corpse with a worried expression on his face.

"Not a fight among animals," he said, and held up a knife. "I fear this is one of Lórindol's. It was driven into the beast's heart up to the hilt. Looks like Master Bear here picked the wrong Elf for breakfast."

Erestor paled, but he quickly overcame the initial shock.

"Bears do not hunt Elves for prey, so why did this one attack Lórindol? This makes no sense. We can only hope Lórindol was not injured."

"I just wish to explicitly declare that I had absolutely nothing to do with this incident, my little flame," Námo said, appearing out of nowhere behind Glorfindel. "This was a wicked bear, and not in my service."

Elrohir looked from Námo to the bear, then he nodded.

"Lórindol will tell us once we are in Mirkwood, Erestor. If such a giant bear could not stop him, nothing could."

Erestor didn't look much comforted, but he nodded. Glorfindel cleaned Lórindol's knife in the snow and put it in his belt. Before he got back on his horse, he looked one more time at the bear, half covered in snow. What had Erestor said? _Bears do not hunt Elves for prey._ Was it possible then that this beast had tried to keep Lórindol away from Mirkwood?

"Oh Lórindol, what have you got yourself into," Glorfindel said to himself, then he swiftly caught up with Erestor and Elrohir.

* * *

Ethuil found Amaris in the shadow of a large oak three, playing "Stone Piglet" with Kíli and Fíli, the Dwarf brothers. The rules of the game were simple: the one who managed to throw three stone balls closest to a gold coin in the grass won the game and therefore the coin. Ethuil didn't really see the entertainment value, but they were probably as bored as him and grateful for any distraction. When he approached, Fíli had just won for the umpteenth time, judging by the weight of his purse.

"Here comes my saviour," Amaris declared when he noticed Ethuil. "A break, my Dwarfish friends, and then I shall win all my money back from you."

"Of course, of course," Fíli said smugly, winking at his brother.

"That's what Gil-galad said as well, and we have yet to see his return," Kíli said with a big grin. "Elves are sore losers, what else is new? But sure, have all the breaks you like." He threw himself down on the grass and his brother followed suit. Amaris sat down elegantly, and patted the space next to him, inviting Ethuil to join him.

"Have you anything interesting to tell, Ethuil? I certainly hope so; this day is one of sunshine, birdsong and boredom."

Ethuil sat down and stretched his legs.

"It _is_ very boring here. I want to go home."

Amaris ruffled the young Elf's hair.

"I know. You will - in time."

They sat in silence for a while, then Amaris noticed the chain of yellow flowers on Ethuil's head. He took it and had a closer look, then whistled through his teeth.

"These are Elanor flowers!"

"Oh, is that what they are called? They are pretty."

"Indeed." Amaris sniffed one of the flowers and smiled. "They remind me of my youth. When I was an Elfling, you could not go anywhere in Mirkwood in spring without stepping on Elanor flowers."

"Really?" Ethuil looked surprised. "I have never seen one in Mirkwood!"

Amaris sighed.

"Of course not. My brother had them all weeded out."

"One of Thranduil's many stellar accomplishments," Kíli commented, and Ethuil looked confused.

"But they are so pretty! Why would grand-ada do such a thing?"

"Because the colour clashed with his robes?" Fíli suggested, and the brothers broke out in giggles.

"Quiet, you two!" Amaris commanded, then he returned his attention to Ethuil. "I will tell you when you are older," he said, and put the garland back on Ethuil's head. That didn't go down too well with the young Elf, though, who glared angrily at him.

"For crying out loud, uncle Amaris - _I am dead_! I cannot get any older! For all we know, I will stay thirty years old for all eternity, so you might as well tell me the story behind these stupid flowers now!"

"The lad's got a point," Kíli said, and Fíli nodded.

"Yes. It's a very annoying age; too young for the real fun, too old to get away with the nonsense."

Amaris looked at the two Dwarves, then at Ethuil. He was right, he _was_ dead. It wasn't like anything he would tell him could change his future in any way.

"Very well then. But do not tell your mother, she already thinks I am your official bad influence."

"Wait, wait, we want to hear the story as well," Kíli said, and quickly sat up.

"Yes. We love a good story," Fíli added, and so Amaris found himself watched by three pairs of eyes, full of expectation.

"Welcome to Amaris' story time," he began. "I wish to add that I did not witness the following events firsthand, as I was already dead by the time it happened."

"I promise we won't blame you for any inaccuracies. Go ahead!" Kíli said.

"My father came to Greenwood because the elders of the clans could not agree on a king, and so it was decided that, rather than fighting among themselves and risking war, they would put their fate into the hands of one who did not have a connection to any of their families, and so could be truly neutral in his judgement. The only one opposing that decision was your grand-ada Erduil."

"I already know that," Ethuil said, and blew a strand of hair out of his face. "That was about the first thing Lionel taught me about the history of Greenwood."

"If you interrupt me one more time, I will not continue. So. Impossible as it might seem to those who know him nowadays, my brother used to be a very likeable Elf in his youth. Indeed, Thranduil charmed many, but there was only one fair Elf lady who won his heart, and that was a young healer with a very wicked sense of humour. She was not impressed by his status and moods, and most important of all, not intimidated by our father's attitude, either. She was of Erduil's clan, and I was good friends with her best friend."

"Oh, oh," Kíli said, wriggling his eyebrows at his brother. "I fear I know where this will go."

"Would you kindly not apply your Dwarvish morals to my kin, please? Thank you," Amaris said with great dignity and a glare. Kíli grinned, but put his hand over his mouth.

"Very well. You know what happened then. We went to war, we all died. Eventually, Erduil married the best friend, who named her daughter Amariel in my memory, because she had golden speckles in her eyes, just like me. And Thranduil, now King of Mirkwood, married the young healer and made her his queen."

"Can we cut the genealogy part and get to the flowers, please?" Fíli said. "I'm not really that interested in the family history of Thranduil."

Amaris rolled his eyes.

"You have the attention span of a trout. Fine, I will try to cut this story short. For a while, all was well in Mirkwood, especially when the royal couple could announce the birth of their first child, Legolas. But where there is light, there is shadow, and once again, war was upon Mirkwood. Thranduil was never one to send his people into war and stay behind, so he saddled Lumir III or IV and led his army into battle, leaving his wife and their little Elfling behind."

"I did not know that," Ethuil said. "That is horrible. Grand-nana must have been very worried and sad."

"Indeed. And because she was so worried and sad, and because she missed her husband so much, she decided to follow him. She stayed with a company of archers in the mountains, but they were attacked by Orcs. They all died, only your ada survived, Ethuil. And that was a miracle; such a wee Elfling, stabbed with a sword. How he survived that wound, only the Valar know. They found him bleeding and crying under the dead body of his mother."

Fíli shook his head. "How horrid."

"And the flowers?" Kíli asked.

"The flowers, yes..." Amaris looked sadly down into the grass. "Thranduil waited for her to return, for he had always been told that those we love will return from the Halls of Waiting. But he waited in vain, century after century. Eventually, he gave up hope and became bitter and harsh, and gave order to have all Elanor flowers destroyed in Mirkwood, for he could not bear the sight of them any more. For that was her name: Elanor."

Ethuil stared at Amaris, then he took the flowers from his head and looked at them.

"Elanor. Of course, that is her name," he said to himself, jumping up to run back to the Halls of Waiting.

"Ethuil! What is wrong?" Amaris cried after him, but he received no answer; Ethuil was running as if he was chased by a Balrog, his dog following him, barking loudly.

"That story appears to have made quite an impression," Fíli said.

"I didn't like it," Kíli grumbled. "It's sad, tragic and has no happy ending."

"Well, Thranduil did find a new love with Nonfindel," Amaris said. "That is a good thing, is it not?"

"No, it's not," Kíli snapped, and stood up. "It's absolutely not a good thing to lose your one true love and just replace them with some random pillock who comes along." With that, he stomped off, swearing loudly in Dwarvish.

"What was that about?" Amaris asked, rather baffled by the Dwarf's outburst.

Fíli sighed.

"He feels cheated of his love, and just can't bear the thought that she might find happiness with someone else. But he can't leave until he has solved his unsolved business, so he'll very likely sit here until the end of times, and so will I, as I can't leave my brother alone. All the others have already left and passed on, even Thorin, but we two are still here, playing Stone Piglet with Elves. No offence, Amaris, but that's not really what I expected my afterlife would be like."

"I see." Amaris sighed. "Well, if anybody can understand him, then it is I, trust me on that, Fíli."

Amaris pulled a small flask from a pocket in his jerkin and passed it to Fíli. The Dwarf opened it, sniffed and made an appreciative noise. He grinned, then took a swig and smacked his lips.

"Ah, that's lovely. What is it?"

"567th First Ager, from my father's personal stock. Do not tell Gil-Galad, but I brought six bottles with me. If there is one thing I have learned in the Halls of Waiting, my friend, then it is that patience is good, but Miruvor is better."

Fíli nodded, and took another swig.

"That's very true, but still, I long to leave. Don't you as well?"

Amaris sighed. He had promised that they would only leave for Valinor once Námo had sorted out his personal chaos with Elrohir. But the way things were going, six bottles of Miruvor would be nowhere near enough to preserve his sanity until that day.

* * *

They walked in silence, and Dûlla, used to Lórindol's chatty company, tried to spark a conversation with the sourly looking Elf next to her.

"Odd season for collecting flowers," she said, pointing at the basket Lionel was carrying. "Or were you hoping to find some berries leftover from autumn?"

Lionel's first impulse was to reply that no, he was trying to find some wit for Dwarves who had none, but then he remembered that the Dwarves were guests, that he was Thranduil's chief advisor, and that ladies ought to be treated chivalrously, so he gritted his teeth and threw back the cloth covering the basket instead.

"I have been collecting Raven's Foil," he said, and Dûlla looked at the clumps of bushy weeds of a dark greenish, almost black colour inside the basket.

"Raven's Foil? I've never heard of it. What is it used for?"

"We extract from it the colour we need for our tattoos," Lionel explained. "I sometimes also use its extract to clean wounds, but only if nothing else is available. It makes for ugly scars; it even stains your skin if you pick it."

"Ah, I see. We use burned wood for our tattoos." She looked at his fingers. "So that's why your fingers are black. I was wondering; Elves are usually so obsessed with cleanliness."

"I would not called it obsessed, _we_ just do not enjoy digging in the dirt," Lionel said with a smirk.

"And that's why _we_ have all the white gems and not _you_ ," Dûlla grinned. "No pain, no gain, Lionel Blackfinger."

Lionel wanted to give an acidic retort, but couldn't think of any, so he just shrugged.

Dís had no desire for small talk; she tried not to miss any of the conversation between Lórindol and Tauriel, who walked in front of her. There wasn't much to eavesdrop on, though, for Tauriel was very close-lipped. She needn't have worried, though; Lórindol didn't like the silent treatment and wasn't willing to walk in silence for the next hour.

"You are upset," he said to Tauriel after a while. "Why? Are you insulted because I beat up one of your guardians?"

Tauriel gave him a frosty sidewise glance.

"First: I am not insulted. Second: you did not beat Feon up, he beat you up. Third: it was a very unwise thing to get involved in a fight with him. He is the youngest brother of Feren, Lord Erduil's chief advisor."

"Oh?" Lórindol shrugged. "I did not know that. But no worries, I will talk to Feren and explain the situation, if it bothers you."

Tauriel's frown deepened.

"That was exactly what I feared you would say. Stay away from Feren, Lord Erduil and anybody who is connected to his clan in any way, shape or form. Do I make myself absolutely clear?" She emphasised every word by poking Lórindol in the arm with her index finger.

"Very clear," Lórindol said. "But pray tell, how am I to tell who belongs to Lord Erduil's clan? They do not wear signs, do they?"

Tauriel groaned, then she beckoned the female guard.

"Maiel, please come here for a moment."

Once she stood next to her, Tauriel pointed at her head.

"Look at her braids, Lórindol. See this? Only Elves belonging to Lord Erduil's clan wear their braids like this. You see these braids, you keep away. Understood?"

Lórindol nodded.

"Understood. Double braids: bad. Single braids: good."

Maiel gave them both very odd looks, then returned to Feon. They continued their journey, but if Tauriel had hoped that the rest of the way could be finished in silence, she was wrong.

"Feren seems to be quite an important Elf in Mirkwood," Lórindol said after a few minutes.

"So?" Tauriel snapped.

"So nothing; I just noticed that it is very important to you that he does not get upset."

Tauriel looked over her shoulder, but neither Maiel nor Feon seemed to be paying any attention to their conversation. Feon nursed his still bleeding nose, and Maiel talked to Dûlla about her mountain goat. The second Dwarf didn't talk to anybody, but Tauriel didn't think she posed any danger. Still, she lowered her voice when she replied.

"At the moment, one has to weigh one's words here very carefully." Then, almost as an afterthought, she added: "He asked me to marry him."

Lórindol starred at Tauriel as if she had just declared that she had been proposed to by Sauron himself. Then he broke out in laughter.

"He did - _what_? Is he insane?"

Tauriel straightened up. "You must be lenient towards him," she said icily. "We are only lowly Woodland folk; we do not share your exceedingly high standards when it comes to courting a spouse."

"But that is not what-" Lórindol began, but Tauriel strode along at a speed that made it absolutely clear that she did not wish to continue the conversation. Lórindol shrugged, then he followed her through the snow, Asfaloth in tow, and when Dûlla and Dís finally caught up with him, he looked miserable.

"Lad, what have you two been arguing about?" Dís asked with a stern face. "That's one really peeved Elf lady, right there. Even her bum looks angry."

"We have not been arguing," Lórindol said. "I do not know what is wrong with her."

"All the more reason to worry," Dûlla said. "Out with it: what did you say?"

"Well, she said that the Elf I beat up - I _did_ beat him up, did I not, Dûlla? - is the youngest brother of Feren, Lord Erduil's chief advisor."

"Of _course_ , you couldn't just break the nose of the fourth Elf left in the seventh row, _no_ , it had to be the brother of one of Thranduil's enemies. Why am I not surprised." Dís rolled her eyes. "Mahal, give me endurance. What happened then?"

"Then she said that Feren asked her to marry her."

Dís and Dûlla exchanged a quick glance.

"And? Did she accept his proposal?" Dûlla asked curiously.

Lórindol threw his arms in the air.

"How am I supposed to know? I asked if he was insane, and she stomped off in a hissy fit."

Dís pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Let me sum this up: she tells you she received a proposal. You ask her if the lad asking her was insane. You wonder why she runs off. Dûlla, give me your axe."

Dûlla quickly stepped between her friend and the young Elf.

"I should tweak your ear, Lórindol! Why, do you have no common sense at all? You have insulted her terribly! And what's worse, now I don't know if she said yes or no!"

"No, what's worse is that it's probably still an hour until that blasted cave. Thanks to you we all now have to run after her and we can't ride our goats," Dís muttered. "By Mahal, Lórindol, if she doesn't kill you, I will, arthritic knees or not!"

Dís stomped off through the snow, using curses that made even Dûlla blush. Feon, with moss stuffed up his nose to stop the bleeding and therefore looking rather silly, caught up with them.

"Whad is doing on dere?" he asked suspiciously.

Maiel looked worried.

"The old Dwarf looks angry. Has there been a disagreement?"

"No, no, all is fine," Dûlla lied. "She just runs so fast because she can't wait to meet your king. And she's not old. She's mature."

"Ah," Feon said. Maiel's nose twitched, and Lionel arched an eye-brow.

"Thranduil will be delighted to meet her mature person."

Dûlla took the rein of her mountain goat. Until now, she had been mostly occupied with all possible horror scenarios of Dís meeting Tauriel, because unlike her friend, she was of a romantic nature. But now the full implications of an encounter between Dís and Thranduil, the Elven king who had locked Thorin, Kíli and Fíli up in a dungeon, hit home. Yes, Dís was old, and she had arthritic knees, but she was stubborn, unforgiving, and she had a sword, two daggers and a slingshot.

"We will see, Lionel Blackfinger," she said. "We will see."


End file.
